[Runs out to her.
Enter Henry.
Henry. Here you, Lepoche! Where is this fellow?—what has he done with Rosa? 'Pray Heaven she ha'n't given him the slip! Now, with Tallyho's consent, and the amiable Celia's acceptance of my passion, I've no alloy to my golden delights, but the mournful memory of Lord Winlove, thus revived, in my unhappy sister's recent elopement.—Was she still in possession of her unsullied name, I, of my Celia's love, and the esteem of such a friend as Lord Winlove could have been—Fortune might do her worst.
AIR.—HENRY.
Let Fame sound her trumpet, and cry, "To the war!"
Let glory re-echo the strain;
The full tide of honour may flow from the scar,
And heroes may smile on their pain.
The treasures of autumn let Bacchus display,
And stagger about with his bowl,
On science, let Sol beam the lustre of day,
And wisdom give light to the soul.
Let India unfold her rich gems to the view,
Each virtue, each joy to improve;
Oh, give me the friend, that I know to be true,
And the fair, that I tenderly love!
What's glory, but pride? A vain bubble, is fame,
And riot, the pleasure of wine.
What's riches, but trouble? and title's a name;
But friendship and love, are divine.
Enter Lord Winlove and Rosa.
Henry. Lord Winlove alive!
Lord W. Sorry to see me so, Henry?
Henry. I own, my lord, I am surprised, yet rejoice to find my hand guiltless of blood, and you still possessed of power to heal my honour, in doing justice to my unhappy sister. Forgive my former weakness, I now only appeal to your humanity.
Lord W. My dear Henry, I never looked upon your sister, but with the ardent wish, of an honourable connexion—a jealous honour hurried you to rashness, and the fondest love rendered me imprudent: thus, we see, the noblest principles, if guided only by our passions, may prove destructive.